Leaving While I Stay
by nanilula
Summary: Alfred's left with the decision of whether to turn off Arthur's life support or not. USUK.
1. 1

_Leaving While I Stay_

'And sometimes your heart,  
Well, it's so pretty I just wanna live there'  
- Lisa Mitchell

The trouble with being in love with someone who is terminally ill is that it isn't as beautiful as people want it to be. It just _is_. It's common. It's hard, so hard, that sometimes it disappears all together and everything is right for a few moments. Everyone has an expiry date, some earlier than others. Some slip away without anyone noticing, some are glad to go and some leave behind broken hearts. Of course Alfred wished it could be different, he'd exhausted his wishes by now, squeezing his eyes shut before he fell asleep and willing things to be _different_. Eventually, though, he realised it was more painful waking up every morning to unanswered wishes, instead of accepting there was nothing he could do to change things.

And being committed to someone who doesn't have long left means there's pressure. People judge and watch, they think they know but they don't know – no one can understand who hasn't lived through it. Hell, Alfred was living through it and he barely understood. Alfred has a selfish heart; he wasn't going to claim otherwise, and yes, Arthur is in pain but Alfred doesn't want him to die. Alfred wants Arthur to stay here, with him, and get better. It was all very well advising someone from a spectator's point of view: _'He's suffering, let him go' _but Alfred didn't really want to be brave and noble by letting Arthur go, he wanted to be self-centred and happy again.

Sometimes he was angry at Arthur. How dare he become so close to Alfred, and ruin his life like this. How dare all Alfred's happiness depend on one, single person. And a person that was rapidly extinguishing. Arthur wasn't meant to be loved because he was only passing through, like he was driving through a town where Alfred was a permanent resident. If Arthur loved him at all, surely he'd never have done this. But then Alfred hated himself for being so helpless he couldn't think of anyone to blame except Arthur himself. He'd say inside his head _'I didn't mean it Arthur, you know I don't, I'm just so scared' _hoping the Englishman would hear and forgive him.

He cupped his chin in his palms and slouched against the bedside table, exhaling loudly. Arthur was lying on the bed, he hadn't moved (and Alfred didn't know why he kept expecting him to), the nurses had arranged him so he was lying on his back, face towards the ceiling, and the American hated that stiff, awkward position. No one slept like that. Especially Arthur who curled up into himself, tucking the duvet over him until there was none left for Alfred. His expression was serene, like he was sleeping, nothing else, no signs of disease or death or waking up.

Alfred had the decision of whether to turn off the machine that was keeping him alive or let it carry on running. Since his mother had died when he was young, and his father and brothers had wanted nothing to do with him, Alfred was Arthur's next of kin. Yep, Alfred Jones was to decide if Arthur died or not, had to weigh up the morality of the situation. Taking into account that Arthur was taking up a hospital bed, using valuable equipment, it was costing the hospital a great deal to keep him alive and the chances of him waking up at this point were miniscule, even if he did wake, the leukaemia would still be there. Everything nudged Alfred in the direction of cutting off the life support.

It was the right decision; he knew that, he wasn't an idiot. But it was the difference between Arthur being tangible and breathing, even with the help of a machine, or Arthur being six foot under the ground and Alfred would never be able to see him again.

He fancied himself numb by now, so accustomed to the weight of Arthur's condition that he was prepared for this. They'd both knew it was coming; they'd never avoided talking about it or pretended it wasn't there. Arthur had warned him and Alfred had took it in his stride. It had existed between them ever since they'd met, like a line of solid space keeping them apart but bringing them closing together. Alfred wasn't numb though, his mind was raw and run-down, he was at the tipping point of every precipice – he was the opposite of numb.

He imagined Arthur moving when he slept over at the hospital, his hand twitching or his eyes moving underneath his eyelids. Then his brother would tell him that it was just his mind playing tricks on him and he should stop spending so much time in the hospital. And sometimes, when Alfred closed his eyes, he could see a memory of Arthur, laughing or frowning, inside his head. Then, he'd open in eyes and Arthur was still.

It wasn't fair that Arthur had to leave while Alfred would stay. That wasn't how couples worked; it wasn't something anyone could handle very well, including Alfred.

The trouble with being in love with someone who is terminally ill is that they're half of you. Half your memories, half your experiences, half your best qualities and half of your worst qualities, half of everything you've put into your life or what's been taken away from it. Ask someone to switch off half of themselves and no one would say yes. Nobody wants to live like there's a massive chunk of them missing.

* * *

Sorry, this is going to be fairly heavy/angsty (~_~;) I'm terrible for sad stories. I'm sure this has been done before, so I apologise for that as well! Thankies to everyone who has reviewed my other works, I'll write a sequel to 'Cold Fingertips' soon but I'll prioritise updating 'Realign'. This story won't be in chronological order and I'm going to attempt to update this every day/every other day which is why the chapters won't be too long.

Song recommendation: 'Valium' by Lisa Mitchell. So many feels :3


	2. 2

'Sometimes your love it's so quiet,  
I don't even need to speak'  
- Lisa Mitchell

"Alfred! Alfred!" Arthur was yelling, his voice stained with drunken mirth. Turning away from the TV screen briefly to find out where Arthur's voice was coming from, Alfred ignored his request and went back to watching the baseball game. "Alfred, come here! Come on, stop being so sodding slow!" Alfred heard a _'thunk' _from within the bathroom and rolled his eyes in despair, switching the TV off and standing up.

When he opened the door to the bathroom, he was greeted to the sight of Arthur flailing, his leg lunging forwards when the bath mat slipped under him, and he hurdled headfirst into the bath. Which was full, for some reason.

The American rushed forward, hooking his hand under Arthur's elbow and urged the man from underneath the water. When Arthur's head broke the surface, he looked something akin to a soggy, miffed cat and Alfred couldn't stop himself from bursting into laughter. "You wanted me?" he asked in between snickers. Arthur's face blazed in playful anger and he splashed warm bathwater at Alfred's face.

"This is why you shouldn't get drunk," he groaned, taking off his glasses and wiping the droplets off them. He glared at the Englishman unconvincingly, too caught up in how funny he looked in his drenched-through shirt, vest sweater and trousers, his eyes a little unfocused due to the alcohol.

"Well?" Arthur said.

"Well what?"

"Are you coming in?" Arthur raised his impressive eyebrows in challenge and drifted nearer to Alfred, though slowly since his clothes must have been heavy.

"Yeah, no thanks," Alfred replied, wiping his face, unable to stop the fond smile forming on his lips. Grinning mischievously, Arthur grabbed the taller of the two and began dragging him into the bath tub.

"That wasn't really a question, love," the Englishman said, chuckling, using all his strength to get a struggling Alfred into the bath. Alfred gave in when his t-shirt was drenched and there was little point in keeping the rest of him dry. He surprised Arthur by jumping in the rest of the way and dunking his partner's head under the water, laughing loudly.

"Nearly bloody killed me," Arthur ground out between coughs and breaths when Alfred finally released him. He tried to tackle Alfred, water was going absolutely everywhere but it didn't matter since Alfred would make Arthur clean up the floor when he'd gotten over his hangover.

"You've ruined my favourite jeans, so we're even."

"Oh, thank you ever so much; of course I wouldn't have as much value as your stupid, _ugly, _jeans," Arthur hissed, looking scandalised. They continued fighting and laughing, wearing themselves out quickly. Alfred was the first to give up and collapsed at the edge of the bath, propping his knees up and chuckling breathlessly.

"Hey! These jeans are not ugly; I get all the ladies when I wear these jeans," Alfred responded impishly, smiling at Arthur's disbelieving expression. He grabbed Arthur's ankle, and the man almost squawked but managed to maintain his dignity, as Alfred pulled his boyfriend towards him and placed him between his legs, content when Arthur hummed softly and rested his back against Alfred's chest. "Y'see, the one day I don't wear them and I end up with this stuffy British guy," Alfred teased, rubbing his fingers against Arthur's and guided the smaller man so he could lean his head against Alfred's shoulder. He raised his dark-green eyes to Alfred and there was laughter in them.

"Well, this stuffy British guy had plans for later this evening. And they involved you, but I suppose I'll have to arrange something else," Arthur commented casually, drips of water sliding off his thick eyelashes on to his cheeks. Alfred felt himself get giddy with something… happiness maybe, and he wanted to stay in this room with Arthur forever, both of them ridiculous and sodden.

"Oh yeah?" Alfred questioned, smirking, gazing down at Arthur. "Well I guess I could prioritise you over my jeans this time, babe."

"I'm honoured," Arthur said with a roll of his eyes. Alfred leant into him, unable to resist, and kissed Arthur, gaining an immediate response. It was calm, slow, both of them hardly moving, Arthur's thumb repetitively stroked over the skin connected Alfred's thumb to his hand. Alfred deepened the kiss, their breath clashing loudly in the echoing silence of the bathroom. "You are not good for me Alfred Jones," Arthur whispered against Alfred's lips, breaking the kiss, "I was perfectly fine with being ill until you came along. And now I don't want to go because I'll miss you and all the things we could have done together… and I have to let you be happy with someone else when I'm gone, because I want you to be happy, so happy," Arthur said quietly, brushing his palm against Alfred's face, swivelling his torso so he could closer to Alfred. "But I want you to be happy with me. I wanted it to be just _us._ But… but I can't think that way… it's so horrible, God…"

"Hey, shush, shush," Alfred soothed, carding his fingers through Arthur's wet hair then placing his hands on either side of his head. "I wouldn't be happy with anyone else, I'm never gonna be with anyone else."

"No, I can't do that to you, I can't be that selfish-"

"Arthur, doesn't matter what you say, I _don't _want to be with anyone else."

Arthur ducked his head as if he were ashamed with himself.

"Just make sure you come back to haunt me, alright?" Alfred joked; kissing Arthur's forehead and sensing him smile sadly.

"I would if you weren't such a wuss when it comes to ghosts."

"Am not!"

* * *

Thank you guys, have some drunk!Arthur! (Drunk!Arthur isn't like drunk!me _at all). _ ヽ(；▽；)ノ


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